The lights on his console remained on despite the darkness around them. How he had managed that, he would never know. He could see Dax’s calm youthful face in the glow of the science console. Kira and Sisko were illuminated by the operations table. All of them took advantage of the weird lighting to see what they could discover. O’Brien abandoned the turbolift problem to monitor the power core. A power surge ran through it. A red light warned that extreme power levels could cause containment breach.
O’Brien hit his comm badge. “Teppo,” he said to his best assistant, “bring power levels down in the core.”
“I’m doing the best I can, sir!” Teppo’s voice sounded faint over the roar of equipment. “Each bounce makes the situation worse.”
O’Brien shut down all nonnecessary systems. The bouncing continued. He clung to the engineering board and ran a diagnostic outside the station. Still nothing. No visible cause.
“Teppo!” he said. “Those levels are too high.”
Maybe he should have stayed near the core. Maybe he could have brought the levels down quicker. But then, he wouldn’t be here to handle all the other emergencies.
“I know, sir—” The rest of Teppo’s response got lost in the equipment noise.
The rumbling stopped, and the overhead lights returned. Behind him O’Brien could hear the crack and hissing of loose cables. The charred scent of fried equipment made his heart sink.
But the heat was off. Cool air was blowing through the vents.
The warning light disappeared. The power core was now operating at 75 percent of normal.
His comm badge chirruped and Teppo started speaking without waiting for O’Brien. “The surge just went away, sir,” Teppo said. “We’ve lost twenty-five percent power.”
“See what you can discover there,” O’Brien said. “And before the next wave hits, let’s reroute control of the core to Ops. We’ll work as a unit if we have to, Ensign.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sisko was frowning at O’Brien. “How serious is it, Chief?”
“It’s worse during those damned waves,” O’Brien said. “I’d stay near the core if I knew when we were going to get hit.”
“Rerouting sounds like a fine solution. That way you can work on keeping Ops operational.”
O’Brien nodded. He wished he didn’t have to do any of it. If only they could figure out where the turbulence was coming from.
Apparently Sisko had the same thought. “Any pattern yet?” he asked Dax.
“I’m sorry, Benjamin,” Dax said.
“We’re doing something wrong.” Sisko pushed himself away from the operations table. His normally immaculate uniform was rumpled, and stubble covered his cheeks. He was the only member of the Ops crew who had not taken time to freshen up. “We’re missing something.”
“Yeah,” O’Brien said, “like half the power on the station.”
No one responded to his comment. He didn’t expect anyone to. He put the working secondary systems back on-line.
“Maybe we’re too close,” Dax said.
“What does that mean?” Kira’s tone was not friendly. But then, Kira’s tone hadn’t been friendly since the middle of the night. It seemed to O’Brien that if she could have taken a Bajoran fighting stick to all the equipment on the station she would have done so hours ago. And he would have happily helped her.
Damned Cardassians. Why couldn’t they have designed something that would stand up to strange circumstances? Federation equipment did.
Most of the time.
“What I mean,” Dax said, speaking in her measured way, “is that we are in the middle of this event. We know the disturbance is widespread because we know that both the Bajorans and the Cardassians have felt it. We watched the Ferengi ship disintegrate. And if this is a natural phenomenon that will pass like an ion storm, then the length of time we’ve been suffering under this is an indication that this thing is huge, depending, of course, on the speed it is traveling.”
“What’s your point, Dax?” Sisko asked.
“My point is that if we could get a runabout out of this mess and far enough away to observe, we might see the whole picture. Right now I suspect we are only getting part of the information we need.”
O’Brien looked up from his engineering console. Sisko’s eyes were closed, the heel of his hand pressed against his forehead. “If we send out a runabout, it runs the risk of getting destroyed like the Ferengi ship.”
“Sending a runabout was not my suggestion, Benjamin,” Dax said. “I don’t think that’s our answer at all. But we may need an outside perspective like that to understand this phenomenon. Perhaps if we contact Starfleet . . . ?”
“I’ve been trying,” Kira said. “Our communications systems are so intermittent I don’t even know which ones are functioning. I might have got through. I might not have.”
A blast of ice-cold air hit O’Brien in the middle of the back, sending shudders through him. He too had gotten no information during the disturbance. He went back to worrying about the turbolifts. Three had started working again.
“Chief,” Sisko said, “we’re going to need help with communications.”
“For the moment,” O’Brien said, without acknowledging Kira, “short-range communications are working just fine. Sending long-range subspace messages could be a problem, but I think that has more to do with the disturbance than with any problem in our systems.”
“I have no evidence that communications are working,” Kira said.
“Move to a different operating station,” O’Brien said. “I’ll fix yours as soon as I can.”
Kira moved. “You’re right. We have short-range. And a problem.”
“Major?” Sisko said.
“A Cardassian Galor-class warship is beneath us,” Dax said.
“And we’re being hailed by a Bajoran ship,” Kira said.
“I have it too,” Dax said. “They have one of the Federation runabouts.”
“Answer the Bajoran ship’s hail, Major,” Sisko said.
“Already done, sir,” Kira said.
The turbolifts were working again. O’Brien kept an eye on the goings-on around him, in case he would have to turn his attention away from inner station problems, but he began working on the environmental controls. He was now freezing.
“Hail the Cardassian ship, Major,” Sisko said. “Chief, I need to communicate with both ships at the same time. They need to talk to each other. Can you do that?”
“Can’t teach pigs to fly,” O’Brien muttered.
“Chief?”
“I can try, sir,” O’Brien said.
“Commander,” Kira said, “Bajorans and Cardassians—”
“I know how your people feel about the Cardassians, Major,” Sisko said. “I don’t need to be reminded of it.”
O’Brien wished the communications station was working. He jury-rigged a power boost to the short-range communications systems, then opened both hailing frequencies. “I have it for you, Commander,” he said, “but I won’t guarantee the work for very long.”
“Put them both on screen, Major,” Sisko said, but by the time the words were out of his mouth, the screen had split into two distinctly different pictures. O’Brien recognized the Cardassian captain, Gul Danar. The Bajoran was Captain Litna of Planetary Defense. In her uniform and with the ship’s equipment as her backdrop, she looked even fiercer than she had hours before.
“What is the meaning of this?” Litna snapped.
“Are you trying to provoke a situation, Commander?” the Cardassian asked.
“You are both in danger,” Sisko said. “The last ship in this area was torn apart by the phenomenon you’re both complaining about. I strongly suggest you both return home until this problem gets solved.”
“Problem, Commander? If the Bajorans keep their terrorists away from our fleet—”
“You’re the one attacking our planet, Gul Danar,” Litna said.
“No one is attacking anyone else,�
� Sisko said. “We are in the midst of a strange subspace phenomenon. Go home. Get your scientists busy. We need to solve this or it will destroy all of us.”
“Stop protecting the Bajorans, Commander,” Gul Danar shouted. “This is the last time they will terrorize us. We are here to defend ourselves. If one of our ships is attacked, we will begin a counterattack on Bajor.”
“That is a declaration of war,” Litna said.
“That is a declaration of intent,” Gul Danar said. “You have already started the war.”
“No one has started any war,” Sisko said. “Both of you, send your ships home. We have another problem in this area of space.”
“I would believe you, Commander,” Gul Danar said, “if you could be more specific.”
“If I could be more specific,” Sisko said, “I would be. And the problem at that point might be solved. But I cannot. And I don’t need the two of you squabbling like children on top of everything else.”
“They have attacked our ships,” Gul Danar said.
“They have ravished us for the last time,” Litna responded.
“Another attack, and we will defend ourselves.” Gul Danar’s likeness disappeared from the screen.
“We only have a few ships, Commander,” Litna said. “It would not be a contest. We rely on you for our protection. Bajor is not pleased with what has happened in the last twenty-four hours. If the situation does not change, we will not be responsible for the consequences.”
Her image winked out.
“Major,” Sisko said. “Bring them back.”
“I don’t know if talking is such a good idea right now,” Kira said.
“It’s the only choice we have.”
The power boost surged in a ray of bright pretty colors on O’Brien’s console. With a beep that wheezed out, the communications array disappeared. “Sorry,” O’Brien said. “Communications are out again.”
“So much for that choice,” Sisko muttered. “Dax, keep searching for the cause of this turmoil. We may have a full-scale war on our hands here if we don’t solve this.”
Dax nodded.
Sisko turned to Kira and O’Brien. “Make getting in touch with Starfleet a priority. We are going to need help with this.” He glanced around Ops. “Are the turbolifts working?”
“For the moment, sir,” O’Brien said.
“Good. I’m going to take a much-needed shower. I’ll be in my quarters for the next half hour should something else happen.” Sisko walked to the turbolift. As he started his descent, the lights flickered.
“Chief,” Dax said calmly. “My console has gone black.”
O’Brien sighed. It looked as if nothing would ever be easy again.
CHAPTER 17
ANTE, FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE.” Cynthia Jones leaned back in her chair and, with her free left hand, reached behind her and caressed Dr. Bashir’s neck. The good doctor jumped. Garak grimaced. The Jones woman couldn’t keep her hands off the doctor although it was quite clear he wasn’t interested.
Garak didn’t understand why the good doctor didn’t tell her to leave him alone. But then, Bashir didn’t do well in social situations. Garak remembered that from the time he had asked Bashir for help. It had taken several overt instructions before the doctor understood what Garak was getting at.
Nam, the Ferengi player that Cynthia Jones had been speaking to, finally threw in his ante.
“Really,” Kinsak the Romulan said. “You don’t have to consider an ante, unless you want to quit the game.”
Nam pressed his left ear as if it hurt him. “I wasn’t considering,” he said in his sychophantic Ferengi way.“I was . . . slow.”
He was up to something, and everyone at the table knew it. Kinsak and his friend Darak—who seemed remarkably calm about the murder of another Romulan—watched Nam like an Ynian Tiger watched the sweetwater gazelle it ate for dinner. Harding chomped on his Ferengi cigar, leaving yellow tobacco stains on his mouth, his gaze always assessing Nam. Klar, the other human at the table, had actually peeked at Nam’s cards twice—and not very discreetly. Only the Irits appeared unperturbed, but no one could read its blank obsidian face. Garak envied it: the perfect poker face.
“Slow,” Klar said. “Of course. What would one expect from a Ferengi?”
“One . . . would . . . ex-pect . . . the . . . Fer-en-gi . . . to . . . play . . . ac-cord-ing . . . to . . . its . . . own . . . rules,” the Irits said. Its metallic voice grated on Garak. It sounded like the creature relied on some sort of technical device to speak the language. But try as he might, Garak couldn’t see anything.
The dealer shuffled. She was a slight, human woman with dark brown hair and nimble fingers. None of the dealers were Ferengi—a shrewd move on Quark’s part. No one would have trusted Ferengi dealers. Garak watched this human woman closely. He wasn’t sure he could trust her either.
Still, the first two hours of play had gone well for him. He had more chips in front of him than he had when he started—a good thing, considering he had spent most of the time trying to figure out the other players’ styles. That made the discomfort of the gaming room worth it. During the first hour of play, he was wondering if he would survive—not because of his hands or the other players’ skill, but because the extreme heat made the temperature and the smell untenable. Even though the Meepod was three tables away, the stifling heat made her stench intensify. Garak expected everyone to become a bit ripe by the end of play, but to start out that way was a bad omen.
Then the cooling controls had kicked in. If the cold air blasts continued, the room would be an icebox by evening. At least that would control the smell.
The dealer dealt two cards to each player. Nam leaned to the left. Klar frowned at him. Cynthia Jones turned her attention from Doctor Bashir and concentrated on her hand. Garak glanced at his cards. A pair of deuces. Nice start.
Harding began the betting with five bars of goldpressed latinum. Garak, Cynthia, the Irits, and Klar called. Both Romulans folded. Nam stared at his cards, then at the pile of chips in the center of the table.
“It’s not a decision,” Cynthia Jones said after a moment. “Either you call, you raise, or you fold.”
Nam’s hands shook as he tossed in five red chips. He leaned to the right, crowding Garak, forcing him to hold his cards close to his chest.
The dealer dealt the Flop: another deuce, a four of hearts, and a five of spades. Suddenly Nam sat up. He pressed his hand against his left ear again, and smiled. The dealer shot him a nervous glance. No one smiled in the middle of a poker hand. Nam didn’t wait for Harding to start the round of betting: Nam threw in six red chips—and for the first time, his hands weren’t shaking.
Garak had played with Ferengi before. They were erratic cardplayers and often frivolous in their betting, hoping for huge profits with little effort. But Nam was very hard to read. Klar ran a hand across his silver hair, his eyes almost flat. No one else tossed in chips. Nam glanced around the table.
“Well?” he said, his tone triumphant. “You either call, raise, or fold, like the lady said.”
He reached for more chips to toss in. Then, so quickly that Garak didn’t see the movement, Klar grabbed Nam’s wrist. “Don’t be overzealous, Ferengi.” Klar’s voice had a flatness that matched his eyes. A chill ran down Garak’s back.
For a moment, none of the players moved. Nam seemed to have shrunk into his chair. Garak frowned. Klar’s comment bothered him. Perhaps because it implied a knowledge of Nam’s hand and Nam’s motives. Or perhaps it was the icy tone which Klar had used, that executioner’s warning tone that implied that any mistake could cost the Ferengi his life.
Then the Irits grabbed six red chips and tossed them in. “Are . . . you . . . all . . . folding?” it asked.
“I am,” Cynthia Jones said.
Harding tossed in his chips. Klar stared at Nam for a long moment, then said, “Nothing could make me fold from this round.”
Garak folded despite his three deuces. The hand
was not spectacular, and he felt as if he didn’t want to get involved in the battle between Nam and Klar.
The dealer dealt the fourth card. Everyone stared at Nam. He watched Klar. Klar’s flat expression hadn’t changed. Finally, Nam folded, his hands shaking as he did so. A slight buzzing filled the air. Nam leaned over, pressing his left hand to his ear.
“Are you all right?” Garak asked.
“Earache,” Nam managed. “’Scuse me.” He stuck one finger in his ear. Cynthia Jones rolled her eyes.
“Disgusting,” Darak said. “Remind me to never play poker with a Ferengi again.”
Harding, Klar, and the Irits finished the hand while the others watched Nam. Garak barely registered the fact that Klar took the pot.
“For goodness sake, Nam, take your finger out of your ear. We’re here to play poker, not watch you pick at yourself” Cynthia Jones said. The tribble cooed, as if concurring with her words.
“Are we ready for the next hand?” the dealer asked. She shuffled the deck.
“Please,” the Irits said. “Let . . . us . . . do . . . some-thing . . . be-sides . . . watch . . . this . . . ir-rita-ting . . . dis-play.”
“Or listen to you gag out a sentence,” Klar said.
Garak frowned at the others. “I don’t think it would hurt us to be polite to each other.”
Kinsak shook his head. “What kind of Cardassian are you, anyway? Polite. Hah!”
The dealer finished shuffling She set the deck in front of Cynthia Jones, who cut exactly in the middle. Then the dealer dealt the two hole cards to each player.
“I am a simple clothier,” Garak said, as he picked up his cards. He had an eight of spades and a jack of hearts.
“Who stays on a Federation space station,” Harding said around his cigar. He tossed in two red chips. “Hey, Klar. Are spies always polite?”
Klar put two red chips in the pot. “It’s easier not to get noticed if you’re polite.”
“Unless you’re Cardassian,” Kinsak said as he checked.
“Or Klingon,” Garak said with distaste. He checked as well.
So did the Irits and Cynthia Jones. Nam raised the stakes by tossing in a third red chip, and the other players did the same. They all wanted to see the Flop.
THE BIG GAME Page 10